PERSONAL ESSAY

A Pilgrimage Through the Valley of Death and Into the Arms of the Ocean

The Road to Redemption

It’s 3 am. I’m in a motel room in Fresno, still on Scandinavian time and wide awake. I’ve showered, packed my bag, and even made the bed as I release the wedge chair from the door handle. Then, one last sweep of the room before closing the door behind me.

It’s early May, and I came here because the Tioga Road through Yosemite is still closed, and my shortcut to the desert was brought to a halt by orange road signs and traffic cones. It forced me to go south, and I put my money on the serpent road of Wawona, past the Yosemite Lakes, as a good excuse to say I visited the mountains.

Two stops along the way. Once for a foggy photo of the dark forest and then again for coffee before the freeway took me here. A wrong turn and a tired mind led me to the lesser of the two places I knew I could afford. Now, I’m standing on the stairs of the motel, arm’s length from the Golden State Highway, breathing moist California air while the sparse traffic rolls like waves in the night.

I don’t know much about Fresno besides tacos and raisins. But as in every major city, the highway cuts through like a blade, leaving a scar of concrete and carbon dioxide in which we pour everything we don’t want to see.

My room for the night had a white steel fence, sealing me off from the city’s dirty no-man’s land, home for the unseen and unwanted. As if this barrier wasn’t enough, I lied about the necessities of reverse parking and a quick escape to further distance myself from those who build a life out of our trash and sell happiness on the street corners.

Nothing happened. Obviously.

I tiptoe down the stairs with a taste of shame. I want to be their witness. Testify in their name about all the things we need to change. Instead, I leave in a rented truck, picking up over-charged coffee in a drive-thru before heading further south, listening to a book about trees on my way to the deserts.

Maybe next time. Meanwhile, I will try to forget.

I remember how old I thought my mother had become when we celebrated her fiftieth birthday. I’m fifty-four this year. I don’t eat meat and avoid anything with milk. And in a few months, I’ve been sober for more than twenty years. That’s more clean days than tainted ones. It’s a lifetime for the unlucky or the time it takes to raise a family. It’s the sum of three dogs, two motorcycles, five cars, four apartments, a new language, two lost friendships, and seven funerals.

It’s a long time. Some days, still not enough.

The 178 will take you east out of Ridgecrest, past the strange magic of Searles Valley, right up to the end of Panamint. There, you turn right to enter the Valley of the Dead.

This morning, life is sweet. The Hidden Life of Trees comes to an end, and I have seen my first desert sunrise. It’s quiet, the sky is wide open, and God is close. I stop by the side of the road and climb the flatbed to get a better view. I’m on tour, checking boxes in the list of things I need to see before I do anything else. Death Valley is one of them, and I wasn’t prepared to feel so alive in the midst of it.

Moving forward forces your mind to catch up, leaving the charade behind without the burden of being wise or rational. No rules equals freedom, and if you’re free, what else is there?

I slept in the truck that night, with my coat as a blanket and a towel as a pillow. I missed you — your freckled skin, the touch of your fingertips, and your smile.

Grand Canyon’s South Rim is about one hour from Williams, Arizona. It’s a long, dark drive if you’re unsure where you’re going, but the reward is endless. I see the sun rise above the canyon, then spend three cold hours sitting in the same spot, wishing it never ends. She’s an altar to lost souls, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

I called the motel, asked for a second night, and did it again the following day. If there is a God, salvation is right here on the Rim.

I know you’re hurt, and I know I’ve failed. There are many things I could have done better and even more things I should have changed. But my purpose sticks like dirt, and you don’t shake muddy boots on a rainy trail. You learn to walk.

The car broke down, and I got stuck at a gas station for eight hours before driving all night to the border of Utah, only to wake up to the sound of the ocean calling me back.

I went to the desert to let things burn, and now I need the ocean to wash off the ashes. It’s the natural law of a pilgrimage to follow the rope to whatever weight is pulling you down before cutting it loose in the depths of the dead. You say your prayers and let go. Then keep your fingers crossed that life will find you.

I let my mind wander on endless roads, sunrise to sunset, with one song on repeat. Then I see the waves.

I wish you could see me like this. Then you’d know I’m not sad, bitter, or heartbroken. I’m awake — a happy man with his feet on the ground, eyes on the horizon, and the mark of God’s blessings on his forehead.

Do you remember when our days turned into nights? The poems I wrote and the stories you told? How we danced to the same songs, singing the same melodies with the same heartbeat. Remember when we were brave enough?

I spent my final days here holding hands with the ocean. The eternal waves of the Pacific come with another blessing, different from the sound of traffic at a motel in Fresno. I fall to my knees by the side of the road, released from the burden of all my fears.

I pick up the phone. I want to tell you that I love you. Always. But how can I ever go back? We should have known better than to let life come in the way of living.

/// M.